CAMP

He comes back after the war and builds it one mile up
A dirt road on his Grandad's abandoned farm.
They spend the summer in a tent the brook for water
Cooking on one of those antique kerosene stoves
By the stone fence at the edge of the wood lot.

Years later looking for a place to dig our well
We find the rotted platform covered with forest debris
Just left there the burners and the rusted shell
So brittle it breaks up carrying it away.
We stop at a good flow only twelve feet down.

He puts in six bunks a kitchen a fireplace of stone
And brick and guides in season from a tree blind
In the birch forest below Basset by a spring with salt.
They hang the kill on a jack pine in front overlooking
The field still open and a view of Jay in the distance.

Food keeps in an oak basket on the shelf outside.
Nights he cooks it three ways for them mushroom stew
A cream dish and the panfried steak with raspberry jam.
They play cards by gas lights that hiss and wear
Thick malone pants with suspenders till late.

He gets the promotion to Postmaster stays away more
And finds one day tire tracks and guts from field dressing
When he returns. After twenty years in one of those mysterious
And sudden changes of heart at a bar one night he vows
To sell the place and won't go back on his word.

The day the agent shows it we four-wheel drive
To the farmhouse site and walk in through deep snow
That spreads out in loose folds over the fields and woods.
Wet flakes drift down in a shower like stars
And cling together in the new element wherever they land.

Windward in a light breeze the trunks are white
And green boughs bend low with the thick layer on top.
Dead trees hang up on the limbs of the live ones
Next to them and the angle of fall makes a bright accent.
Broken branches and brush poke through the cover.

She has me get rid of the bent hooves for gun rests
From the wall and puts in curtains to cover the bare windows
But we still see the holes where the bone stuck in the wood
On long weekends whenever we can. We bring water inside
With a pitcher pump and move the sink to the front for light.

When he retires he gets the top spot at the Shriner's Lodge
Traveling to Albany and New York and we visit together
On the new porch above the skyline where he was born.
The schoolhouse is at the bottom. He dreams of a ten acre pond
And a campground with people from all over.

I get the call at the office and his son is on the line
Telling me his Dad was helping out framing the roof.
When it happens they're at the cabin table
Alone together with the pain and confusion of it.
Next trip up the siding's all on and just needs paint.

First good snow of the year I go up with a load of oak.
Over the steep grade wheels slip the motor labors
In the wet blanket and smells hot when I get there.
Stacking new wood on the side porch I feel the weight
And keep it separate from last year's mixed birch and maple.

Following the black line running water makes flowing
Downgrade through tangled brush and frost
I still find myself struggling to say the right words.
All the tracks are filled by the time I get back
And next day a strong wind blows it all around.

2/5/95  Jay  NY